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I know I seem especially hard on flacks, but here are two opposites to show why. One follows me on Twitter, sees me begging for help on the most daunting chocolate story I’ve ever done and emails me to hook me up with a young, smart pastry chef who’s doing exactly what I need. The other . . . Where do I begin? My editor has provided me with my most solid lede, but the 9-to-5-er at the restaurant where she thought he bakes never responds. Only after I go Yahooing (which is so often more fruitful when reporting, to screen out the SEO bullshit) do I learn he has moved on, and I turn him up in Las Vegas. So I call the new restaurant, in an allah-forsaken casino, and the nice woman who answers says the best way to reach a pastry chef is to contact the PR person by email. Which I do, giving great detail. Only to get a response a couple of hours later asking: “Who is XXXX?” Yikes. This guy gets paid to promote and has no idea a high-visibility pastry chef is involved in what turns up on the plates for the suckahs? I want the checks he’s cashing.